


It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Prickmas

by RobotMeatball



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Irreverence, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, M/M, References to Christianity, fashion designer jean, it's so big, oh my god jean look at his butt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8987803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobotMeatball/pseuds/RobotMeatball
Summary: Up-and-coming fashion designer Jean lowers himself to do the costumes for his hometown's holiday pageant, and encounters his biggest challenge in the pants of one Marco Badonkadonk Bodt.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fujoshichan69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fujoshichan69/gifts).



> Fujoshichan69, you are one of the kindest, most supportive people in this entire community, and I was honored to draw you for the JMGE. I hope you enjoy this and have a holiday as amazing as you are!

Jean paces the orchestra pit like a husband waiting for his wife to drop triplets, and those triplets are, in order of appearance, Armin Arlert, Historia Reiss, and Marco Bodt. An angel, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and an elf. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, and in a way, it is: Jean Kirstein did an internship with Levi Ackerman at Legion's School for Design. He can do a plaited braid stitch in his sleep, he wears Alexander McQueen like nobody's business, and his talented fingertips are so callused that he barely has any prints left. In the world of up-and-coming fashion designers, he's pretty much the shit.

So of course his luck would dictate that he ends up doing costumes for his hometown's _It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Prickmas_ pageant.

The tradition of irreverent holiday jackassery began when Eren Jaeger, his half-brother, accidentally set fire to the Baby Jesus' crèche when he was seven years old. Long story. Big hit with the college kids. Since then, Trost University has been trying to outdo itself every year with increasingly tasteless Christmas plays. It was funny when Jean was twelve, but he's pretty much over Mr. Hankey jokes and Bad Santas now that he's actually got a name in the fashion industry.

Jean scowls. _It'll be fun_ , Eren said. _Mom'll finally forgive you for wrecking her car_ , Eren said. Except it's not fun, and his mom hasn't forgiven him, and Jean's got jetlag from flying back from New York with a chip on his shoulder and four suitcases full of costumes. What a waste of brilliant sewing.

And yet he's _anxious_ now, waiting to watch the first dress rehearsal. Something about the asbestos-like snow and Christmas lights makes his heart sing a little with nostalgia. He's still trying to dismiss it as indigestion from plane food when the house lights goes down, and he quickly finds a seat in the front row next to Reiner Braun, who's directing.

"Break a leg," Reiner roars, making Jean wince.

"Macbeth," Jean shouts.

"Shut up, asswipe," Reiner grouses, and _asswipe_ echoes in the auditorium as the curtains part. Fitting, somehow. Jean leans forward, chin cradled nervously in his palm. Bert hits a spotlight, the music starts, and Armin Arlert shuffles onto the stage.

Jean claps aloud. Armin's a vision in his angel costume, all lace and halo and designer Chenille slippers that Jean filched from Levi's closet. He hasn't seen Armin in years, but his voice is clear and familiar as he recites his opening lines—which are oddly…sincere?

"The Lord is with you, Mary," says Armin, hands raised respectfully. "Blessed are you among women. You have found favor with God. Great will be His dignity and He will be called Son of the Most High."

"What is this sappy shit?" Jean whispers to Reiner.

"No, seriously, shut up," Reiner whispers back. There's no lost love between them.

Jean's reply dies in his mouth as Historia enters from stage left, her fake pregnant belly beautifully supported by Jean's satin maternity robes. Her headpiece sparkles in her golden hair. She could be walking a runway for how gorgeous she looks, and Jean feels a warm swell of pride when Reiner actually pats his knee in congratulations.

"I am the servant of the Lord," says Historia sweetly. "Let it be done to me as you say."

"Really?" says Jean.

"Jean, shut up," says Historia in her, lower, prissier, normal voice.

"There's my girl," Jean says affectionately.

Then there's a jingling sound. Jean knows it immediately: it's one of the two bells he sewed onto a pair of hand-stitched shoes with cute little curls on the end, like something from a Tim Burton film. Juvenile, yes, but done with a craftsmanship no one can deny. Jean stands up to take in the debut of his life's work, hands clasped nervously under his chin.

The costume is chic without being cliché. It's couture without classism. Any industry bigwig would fucking applaud it, but it'll still look at home on some nobody's men's nine-and-a-half feet: genius, really. He's going to use the design in his grad school portfolio as soon as he can get someone non-sucky to model it.

Jean doesn't know Marco personally. The guy flew in from California to attend Trost—first sign right there that he's an idiot—and everyone's been _raving_ about him on Facebook and in their group chats: Marco this, Marco that; guess what Marco said last Sunday; Marco just tried Sambuca; let's add Marco to the group chat. Jean vetoed that immediately. These are _his_ friends, shitty and out-of-contact and unimpressed with him as they are. They haven't treated him right since he left, and it—it hurts, okay, it _hurts_ that the guy who sidled up into his place is the one he's dressing for a lead role in his hometown tradition. But Jean's nothing if not capable of sucking it up. He's been doing it for twenty-one years, after all.

The spotlight refocuses, and Marco Bodt himself strolls onto stage.

Jean stills, but his cheeks go hot.

"And so Joseph and Mary went to Bethlehem to register for the census," Marco announces, beaming, but what Jean hears is, _I'm the most beautiful, tanned, starry-eyed elf in all of history, and I wear J. Kirstein's emerald cashmere like a goddamn dream_. After that, Jean's ears fill with a sweet, happy buzz.

Armin and Krista shine with a healthy, corn-fed country beauty, but high fashion is sharp, _city_ , and that's what California-bred Marco is offering onstage with his baby face and strong elbows and broad, unassuming shoulders. No one has ever worn Jean's work so gorgeously. No one. Marco's long, dark lashes fan his freckled cheeks. His lips are full and polite and a smile plays across them as he smoothes the wrinkles from his green tunic, toned legs hugged by red-and-white striped spandex. From the front, at least, he's everything Jean could've ever imagined. He's perfect. There's even a crisp, confident swivel in his hip as he pivots toward center stage and—

_Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrppp._

"Oh, shoot!" Marco cries into his mic, and a sharp squeal of feedback makes everyone wince and reach for their ears. "Sorry!" Marco says over the clamor, waving his hands in apology. "Sorry! Sorry, guys!"

And as he turns, Krista already fussing over him somewhere below waist-level and Eren roaring offstage with wild, teary laughter, Jean gets a full view of Marco Bodt's wide, naked, spectacular ass.

*

"The lines show beneath the spandex," Jean explains again and a-fucking-gain. "I _specifically instructed_ that he not wear underwear, because—"

"—you wanted to see Marco's honky-tonk badonkadonk," Reiner finishes, and Jean's 'friends' bust up laughing for roughly the four hundredth time in the last hour. Rehearsal was a complete wash after the epic pants-tearing, of course, because no one could keep a straight face with Marco's bareass cheeks sparkling in the spotlights, so they all bailed and went for eggnog shakes at the Dairy Dream across from Hannes'. Jean sneers and sullenly spoons more ice cream into his mouth, staring at the dirt. He doesn't need to look up to know that he's the only person not smiling—including Marco. For having just flashed the world, Marco is stunningly resilient, laughing along and taking their jabs with shy, blushy grins. Probably he's used to fucking ripping out the seats of his pants with that _monster_ of a rear end.

Like, holy shit. Jean was so focused on the costuming and Marco's eyes and gait that he somehow didn't immediately notice Marco's massive ass, which sticks out like four inches from the rest of him as leans against the ledge of the drive-thru window. "Shut up," says Jean, crossing his arms. "Models have to either go commando or wear thongs to—"

"Jean wants Marco to wear thongs!" Eren screeches.

"Fuck it, fuck y'all," says Jean, and it pisses him off so bad when his accent slips that he lets his cup drop to the ground and storms off while they yuk it up behind him.

God, he deserves better friends. Not a single one of them supported him in his decision to move to NYC. They used to laugh at him when he spent his summers sewing tiny clothes for their action figures, repurposed his old jackets into handbags, patched their jeans when they tore them during sports practices. Trost's small, but it's an athletic town, and though Jean's no slouch on a field—third baseman, lacrosse defenseman, and defensive tackle, thanks very much—he could never keep up with the likes of Mikasa and Annie and Reiner. He just—he wanted something that was his. Something where he could make and change on his own terms, without having to bleach grass stains out of his pants.

He knows Marco's following him when Connie says, "Let's get some fries with that shake" behind him, and he braces himself as Marco falls into step, his big, pretty hands stuffed into the pockets of his awful winter coat. "That jacket is a travesty," Jean mutters, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Yeah, for real," says Marco in his easy, accentless voice. "Sorry. I'm freezing here."

"California boy," says Jean. He mouths Marco's words subtly, ' _for real_ ,' his round, classy vowels. Sighs. His breath huffs out into the cold air around him. "Why the fuck would you leave Sacramento to live here with these fucking clowns?"

"Sacramento isn't LA. It's not glamorous. And your friends are good people."

"Ain't my friends," says Jean meanly.

"Surely you don't mean that."

He doesn't; it's true. Instead of admitting that, though, he turns to face Marco, and is struck again by the earnestness of his gaze, his handsome bone structure and the lovely curves of his lips. "I just wish they cared a little more about what I'm doing with my life instead of calling me back here like the punch line of some shitty joke," he says. Straightforwardness has never been his problem. "And I wish the person who replaced me here wasn't such a hard act to follow."

Marco thinks for a long moment. A stray snowflake catches his cheek, and he brushes it away, leaving a tiny, shiny streak of moisture. "They're just embracing me because they miss you," he says at last. "You left a hole here so big that they don't want to forgive you, but it's because they love you so much. You don't hear the way they talk about you."

"Yeah, sure," says Jean, not believing it for a second.

"It's true. I'm so happy to meet you. I—I looked up your portfolio online. I don't have to be a fashion guru to know that your work is incredible, Jean."

Jean's face heats up, and he looks away fast. He's proud of the new lineup he made with shell-beiges, warm whites, and a desaturated, daring gray-purple that speaks to him. It's the most personal he's ever gone with a color palette. Marco having seen it and liked it feels like an approval of Jean on the basest level of his existence. 

"I really want to intern with Erwin Smith," he says gruffly. "My work is inspired by him; he's the editor-in-chief of Scout Runway. So—thanks. It means a lot to me that you think I've got a shot."

"No problem," says Marco. His cheeks are red with the cold. He offers Jean his eggnog shake, and Jean spoons a bite into his mouth, his jaw aching with the effort not to smile.

*

"—the Angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were afraid. But the Angel said—oh shit—"

Marco's taken to actually wearing underwear now because he keeps splitting the seams of his elf pants, but the sight of his pinstriped boy shorts still makes Jean's heart race. He's standing just offstage with a threaded needle at the ready, hoping the curtain is shadowing his flush. 

"Armin, but the Angel said 'oh shit,'" Eren echoes from the rafters.

"Oh sh-shoot," says Armin in a valiant attempt.

"Tell me again why you can't just loosen up the fabric?" Eren asks Jean.

"When's the last time you saw an elf wearing parachute pants?" Jean demands.

"Last year, when we had the MC Hammer number," Eren replies, but Jean ignores him and gestures Marco toward him. Marco waddles over gingerly, pinching together the split seams until he's within reach. Jean begins to hem them back together, his normally expert fingers clumsy. He pokes Marco's round, warm thigh.

"Ouch," says Marco.

"I'm sorry," Jean mumbles, jamming more pins in his mouth so he doesn't have to talk.

It's not like he thinks Marco is doing this on purpose, exactly. Like—three times in one rehearsal is a pretty tired joke, and Marco doesn't strike him as the type to milk something ass-related just for attention. For being the lead in the play, he's incredibly unassuming and soft-spoken when they're hanging out after hours. And they've been doing a lot of that lately.

On Thursday, the whole lot of them went to see the Tom Ford movie Jean was hyped about. It ended up upsetting the crap out of Armin and Mikasa, so they bailed and spent the rest of the night at Hannes', sipping cocoa and talking. Marco's fat thigh was pressed against Jean's in the booth the whole time. The day after that, Jean, Marco, Connie, and Sasha baked sheet after sheet of holiday cookies, covering every surface in the Brauses' kitchen. Marco got green frosting on his nose. Jean, fighting the urge to lick it off, wiped it off with a damp paper towel and jerked piping bags off over the cookie Christmas trees in an obvious display of sexual frustration. His hands still ache from it.

Now it's Christmas Eve, and their final rehearsal is kicking off with the brand new tear of Marco's inseam. Normally Jean would have Marco just take off the pants—Marco is perfectly happy standing center stage stripped to his skivvies—but an inseam is a delicate thing, an important artery in a costume's anatomy, and Jean wants it perfect and gorgeously constructed and triple-reinforced.

_Tell him_ , something in Jean commands as he guides the needle back and forth through the spandex, then, on the heels of that: _Tell him what_? Marco's been his Facebook friend for like four hours. They've only just added him to the group chat, and they haven't spoken there through private messaging yet, and one shared eggnog shake and plate of cookies does not a relationship make. Jean refocuses on his sewing, hand dangerously close to Marco's crotch as he removes the pins. Each motion reveals a new slip of baby-smooth, freckled skin. Jean's finger accidentally ghosts across it as he moves to readjust the fabric.

Marco's thigh quivers.

Jean's hands freeze.

"S-sorry," says Jean.

"It's fine," Marco says quickly.

"No, like, I didn't mean to; that was unprofessional—"

"It was an accident! It's okay. Just—let's get this done, please," says Marco, voice strained.

Jean flushes again, this time with self-loathing. He didn’t mean to disgust Marco with his touch. He sews the tear quickly and efficiently, hands steady now, focusing on the bland in-out motion of it that elicits no imagery of sex; _godplease, don't think about sex_. He knots it off and leans back, jamming his needle back into his pincushion. "All done," he says.

"Thanks," blurts Marco, fleeing, and Jean slowly replaces his sewing kit, wondering why he can repair everything so easily until it comes to the empty feeling he gets now, watching Marco walk away.

*

Opening night. Full house. By now, the notoriety of Trost U's Christmas pageants has spread to all of the neighboring counties, and people from Stohess and Ragako and Karanese show up in ugly sweaters, eager to watch the annual shitshow.

Jean's not nervous, but Marco is, so he stands backstage with him as he wrings his hands and takes sip after sip of spiked punch. "Whoa, there," says Jean, pulling away his Styrofoam cup. "Slow down."

"Sorry, sorry," says Marco. "It's just—I've never been in a play before, and—"

"You'll be great." As an afterthought, sheepish: "Just, uh, don’t move too fast."

"I don’t like being onstage," Marco says, voice slightly slurred.

Jean frowns. "Then why did you audition?"

"I didn't. They just asked me to. They said I might be best for what we're trying to accomplish for you and—"

"Accomplish for me? What?" says Jean.

"Marco," calls Eren sharply from the catwalk, and Jean can hear the frown in his voice, even from down here. "Get in place. House lights are going down."

"Jean," says Marco, grabbing the front of his shirt, "I want you to know. I just want you to know that—that I—"

"Places!" Reiner stage-whispers, clapping his hands, and everyone disperses, bustling Marco along in a shimmer of glitter and spandex as the lights go down. A moment later, there's a swell of applause and sarcastic catcalling, and it's showtime.

Jean sneaks back into the audience and sits down in his reserved seat—front-row, center. The children's choir from Trost Elementary begins a sweet, young-voiced rendition of _O Little Town of Bethlehem_ , startlingly earnest in its Christmas spirit. Jean feels another stab of holiday cheer, fighting back a smile. He's just starting to feel floaty and merry when a familiar, tiny hand grabs his elbow.

"Don't think I didn't notice you stole my Chenille slippers," Levi Ackerman, his professor, whispers murderously.

"Oh my god," Jean whispers back simply, going cold with terror.

Instead of curb-stomping him into a bloody mess, though, Levi lets go and places a finger to his own lips to shush him. Jean regards him in horror: his sharp-nosed profile and severe haircut send little splinters of ice into his soul. He sits there for several minutes with adrenaline-filled white noise shivering through him. By the time he starts breathing again, Armin and Krista are onstage, their costumes undeniably cutting-edge and classy in a way that Jean hopes redeems him with Levi.

"The Lord is with you, Mary," Armin recites; words that Jean has heard a hundred times by now. "Blessed are you among women. You have found favor with God. Great will be His dignity and He will be called Son of the Most High."

"Nah, brah," says Historia.

Jean pauses.

_What?_

Armin yanks off his cloak to reveal a wide span of Victoria's Secret angel wings instead of the hasty cardboard ones Eren made for him yesterday. A low, sexy porno beat starts to play. Historia sweeps her robes up and back, displaying, instead of her silicone pregnant stomach, the metallic lace bustier that Jean turned in two semesters ago for his final in Lingerie and Swimwear Design course, tailored perfectly to her tiny body. The two of them link hands and raise them in triumph, stilettos glimmering like knives.

"Let us go into Bethlehem and see this thing which Jean Kirstein has made known to us!" Armin cheers.

Levi stands up and heads a huge wave of applause. Everyone begins whistling and stomping, and glitter rains from the rafters, and then Trost University is setting the stage aflame with a formal, perfectly-choreographed, magnificent lineup of Jean's work.

The children's choir starts singing an a cappella version of _Baby Got Back_.

"Oh my god," Jean whispers.

Everything's here: not just the costumes Jean made for the pageant, but the pieces he designed for the students' show last autumn, the Yuima Nakazato-inspired kinetic, futuristic couture, the wedding and bridesmaids dresses he made in May as a favor to Hitch and Marlowe. His friends appear one after the other, their outfits unfettered by gender. Jeweled mini-dresses. Velvet bloomers, mesh balloon skirts, sequined capris. What couldn't fit on them is exhibited by the sorority sisters from Mitras: they wear glimmering red and green makeup and stern, high-fashion expressions, walks stellar, certain. When Eren strolls out in Valentino Astro platforms and Jean's peacock-feathered toque, Jean starts shaking with laughter. 

He knows an apology when he sees one: his friends were aware of their lack of support for Jean's aspirations, and they're looking to fix it. For some reason, these assholes love him. Levi's presence suddenly makes sense, as does the appearance of the contents of his school wardrobe, and Jean finally gets enough strength in his legs to stand and cheer with the rest of them.

All this, and he's still surprised when Marco is the grand finale.

He walks out in the elf costume. The military-green hot pants, the asymmetrical tunic, the red patchwork scarf with the viscose rayon tassel accents. Someone's painted a white streak across his eyes, and even though his broad smile isn't very professional, it makes Jean's heart pound with—with _love_.

The crowd is going crazy. The choir has moved onto _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ over the wub-wub of a dubstep sample, and everyone's on their feet, and Eren leaps from the stage to grab Jean's hand and haul him up the steps to the center of the stage. Bert hits him with the spotlight. Marco seizes Jean's fingers from the other side and urges him into a low, humble bow. Jean beams, head down. His eyes are filled with happy tears. The audience and lights blur together in a red, gold, and green kaleidoscope, and the applause rings in his ears long after the auditorium clears but for Levi and a ridiculously tall, handsome man.

"Oh my _god_ ," says Jean, practically sobbing. Marco's hauling him down the steps toward the aisle, shoes jingling merrily, and when they're within arm's reach of the blond man, he holds out a sturdy hand. 

"My name is Erwin Smith," Erwin begins.

"I know," Jean whimpers, then clears his throat. "I-I know. Mr. Smith, it's an absolute _honor_ to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," says Erwin, leaning casually back in his tailored Valentino suit. "My nephew Marco showed me your portfolio. I would love to have you on for a paid internship with my publication."

"Oh my god," Jean whines.

He's still struggling with that when Marco turns to him, hesitates, then leans forward to kiss him soundly on the lips.

Jean only hesitates a moment before seizing Marco's face in both hands and kissing back hard, pouring his whole soul into it, the majesty and beauty and victory of the entire night. His hands find Marco's waist and wait there, snug in the curve of his spine. He doesn't reach for Marco's ass. It'd feel redundant, somehow. Marco pulls back, and Jean sees that his expression is radiant with affection, eyes glimmering with tears behind the mask of pale shadow that shines on his tanned face as pure as white snow.

"I want to go back to New York with you," Marco says breathily. "I want to make you breakfast; I want to wear your clothes; I want to know anything and everything about you, Jean Kirstein."

He flings himself into Jean's arms, and neither of them blink at the loud _prrrrrrrrrrrpp_ tear that follows.

"Sorry!" cries Marco.

Jean laughs. "I'll make you another," he says, and it’s a promise that he breathes into Marco's mouth as he kisses him again and again, hands looped in his handmade scarf, heart already full of all the embracing and lovemaking and fucking _hemming_ that he knows waits ahead of them in their shared future.


End file.
